Don't Cry, Son
by Cr1mson5
Summary: A little one-shot I think would've been cute if it actually happened. Superman comforts Tim/Robin after delivering the bad news of Batman's supposed demise after Final Crisis.  Hopefully  better than it sounds, trust me.


He was sitting on his bed, his knees pulled up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs, rocking back and forth. Even before I opened the bedroom door, even before I was all the way down the hall, I could hear his sobs. They were quiet, the kind of tears you cry when you don't want anyone to know you're crying. But they were still somehow the most pitiful, lonely-sounding sobs I'd ever heard.

I had been relieved of Bruce's cape and cowl by Alfred down in the Batcave earlier. My hands were empty now, as I stepped through the door of Tim Drake's room and shut it behind me.

The words I had to say to the boy in the bright red Robin costume huddled on his unmade bed were, unfortunately, words he'd heard too often. I felt for him, really, I did. I could understand his pain. I'd lost my whole world when I was an infant. He'd lost his whole family and two of his best friends—_his _whole world. True, it was a small world, but it was full enough for Tim, and it made him happy. The poor boy didn't deserve everything that'd been heaped onto him, the loads of tragedy and stress and sorrow. I knew that, at this point, what I had to say wouldn't ease his suffering. But I could always hope it'd do something for him.

"Hey." I sat down next to him, on the edge of the bed. I noticed that his mask, the one he was always so careful to leave on his face, had been removed. He kept rocking, but he glanced at me with watery, bloodshot blue-gray eyes that said: _Go away. This is your fault._

"I…I know you're hurting, Tim," I stammered awkwardly. "I know how painful this must be for you. He was…he was my best friend."

"He was my second father," Tim mumbled into his arms, letting them muffle his words. I could almost hear his heart breaking, and I couldn't help but think that I shouldn't have heard it. He was a high school senior, not exactly a kid anymore. He'd be eighteen in ten and a half months. But, somehow, curled up in a tearful little ball in that room, he looked so small, so vulnerable, like a tiny little child. It made me sad for him, because he shouldn't look like that—ever.

"I know how much you've already lost," I continued. "I know about it all. I just wish that you didn't have to lose another person this way."

"You mean, like I lost Conner?" the boy spat. I winced a little at the sudden shift to anger in his voice, and he whirled to face me furiously. "FYI, I _know _what it's like to lose your best friend. That was Conner; that was Bart. And you might know about all that, but you don't _get _it. You don't even _remember _losing your parents long enough to feel bad about it. You never got close to them. You never talked to them, asked them for help…you—you never…had to touch their blood…see their dead bodies…" He trailed off and buried his face in his arms once again, crying even more now that he remembered all of that anew, as well.

_Way to go, Clark, _I thought. _You came to make it better, and you've only made it worse._

"You're right, in a way. I never did have the kind of relationship with my parents that you had with yours. And I don't really feel as bad as you do or as Bruce does—did—because of it, I guess. But I do still feel bad, because sometimes I think of what I might've been able to say to them, to do with them, if Krypton hadn't been destroyed." Tim mumbled something, maybe an apology, but I ignored it. "And now I understand how much it hurt you to lose Conner and Bart, because now I've lost my best friend. So, I feel your pain, Tim. I feel it more than I thought I ever would."

Tim gasped out another sob, but he said nothing. I stopped for a moment, but then I kept talking, hoping I could calm him down.

"I'm not going to tell you that it's going to be okay, because even I don't believe that. I also don't believe that it'll ever get better, the pain, I mean. But, in time, it will fade. The wounds will…not heal, never heal, but they'll scar over, I guess. And then, it won't feel so bad anymore. I know you don't think this will ever stop hurting, and neither do I. But I know we can get through this if we all just stick together. Bruce might be gone, but his family isn't, and he'd want you to keep going, to continue his legacy. Because that's what he built you up for, you're his son, and he's proud of you. Wherever he's at, he's so, so proud of you, and he doesn't want you to stop living just because he's not here anymore."

Tim's tears began full-force again, and then I couldn't help myself. I scooted closer to him, stretched out my arms, and embraced him. He let himself fall into my hug, his face pressed into the S on my chest, still sobbing piteously. I stroked his hair and held him, not knowing what else to do. "Brave, strong little bird," I whispered. "Don't cry, son. Don't cry. Shhh, shhh, you're okay. I've got you now. You're alright. Shhh…"

I held onto Tim as he cried, understanding how Bruce must've felt the day the boy's father was killed. I got what it must've been like, cradling a broken Robin on the bloody floor of the Drakes' apartment. Hugging the boy like this, I understood why Bruce never really let go of him in spirit after that. He was a courageous youngster who'd seen so much, _lost _so much because of his commitment to the life of a hero and was still willing to persevere, but he was so weary, doubted himself so much. He needed reassurance, needed someone to hold him and remind him that he was doing the right thing and tell him to never give up. In that moment, I understood what it was like to be a father for Tim Drake, and if only for just a moment, I understood what it was like to have him for a son. Because…he really was like a son to me, I'll admit it. I didn't want him to have to suffer like this.

After a while, I came out of my reverie and noticed that Tim wasn't crying anymore. In fact, he was perfectly still in my arms, and—stupid as it may be—I worried that he was dead. If I hadn't been paying attention to the pressure I'd been putting on him, I could've crushed him. _Please…please don't let that be true._

Warily, I glanced down and noted, with relief, that he was still alive. He was only sleeping, his head rested against my chest and his mouth open slightly. I gave a drained smile and sat there for the longest time, holding the little bird. He seemed so much younger now, so much smaller and more fragile, but also, somehow, a little less serious and severe. Quite simply put, he seemed…peaceful. I prayed that he would stay that way.

It was with the utmost care that I laid him back onto his pillow and stripped him of his uniform. Then, I covered him up, brushed his hair back from his face, and left.

Someday, that boy would be a great hero. He couldn't see it, sure, but I could. He had so much potential, so much "hero material" inside him that it was almost uncanny. He'd lost so much, but he'd kept going on. And I had faith that he'd keep going on through this.

Bruce's death had hit him the hardest probably because, for him, Bruce was the world. He was all that boy had left, and I hated to be the messenger of the death of someone's world. Tim looked up to Bruce in a way that could only be paralleled by the way I used to look up to Pa Kent. No wonder this was crushing him, killing him from the inside.

Tim had everything he needed to keep going. He just had to see the will in himself.

Bruce was dead. Tim wouldn't hear it, wouldn't accept it now, but someday, he would.

Someday, Tim Drake would become a great hero…just like Bruce Wayne.

**~END~**


End file.
